


ain't that a kick in the head

by karples



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karples/pseuds/karples
Summary: He was the Angel of Death, and a part of him would’ve let Billy Rocks deliver him to some dark dream if Billy so pleased.
Or: Goodnight Robicheaux and Billy Rocks walk into a bar.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princesschinatsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesschinatsu/gifts).



> title from the dean martin song.

A man sailed over the bar counter and bit the dust a few seats down. Goodnight spared him a glance; red was _not_ his natural hair color, Goodnight was certain. Beneath his breast pocket, he probably carried a puckered bullet scar. In his boot, two switchblades.

Goodnight had a damn good memory for a variety of things: poetry, the recoil on different kinds of pistols, wanted posters. Tonight was just a good night for Goodnight. Two or three bounties in one place, if he was counting right.

Another person dropped heavily, clearing a table of its drinks and deck of cards. Goodnight tucked his thumbs into his belt and watched from his dim corner, not participating, but not intervening either. There was a familiar little itch in the back of his mind, one that he refused to scratch. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction--where had he read that? Newton, of course, but whose copy had he borrowed? His tutor’s, or had it belonged to his father’s library?

He spent the next five minutes chewing on a cigarette and the possibilities, watching Billy Rocks decimate a gathering of fellow outlaws. Billy had grown out a mustache, Goodnight noted idly. Sure, he’d looked good on paper, younger, clean-shaven, but Goodnight liked the way Billy Rocks looked now, swinging at a cowboy twice his size.

And there was that itch again, more like an urgent pinch this time.

Nothing good had ever come from indulging Goodnight’s impulses. Twitchy trigger finger, and all that.

Billy kicked in someone’s front teeth. The man wailed, fired a shot into the ceiling, then happily blacked out. Goodnight was pretty sure the man would wake up whistling a prettier tune than he’d ever whistled in his whole godforsaken life.

The saloon was suddenly quiet but for the tinkling of glass shards. Goodnight ground out his cig, rocking back on his heels and surveying the situation. Billy turned to Goodnight, and they stared at each other across the pile of bodies.

In another life, Billy Rocks could’ve been a man who’d never buttoned his shirts wrong. In this life, he was a man who’d killed his employers and never buttoned his shirts wrong. He was breathing heavily, though he didn’t seem hunted, only alert.

“What was that, twenty-two?” Goodnight said jovially, keeping his hands away from his pistols.

“Three,” said Billy. His eyebrow arched. Goodnight knew instantly that Billy Rocks knew what Goodnight was--not who, not yet. “You missed one behind the counter. Twenty-three.”

Goodnight craned his neck to check and wasn’t disappointed. A pair of shiny boots pointed heavenward: Billy’s twenty-third and Goodnight’s bounty number three.

“Impressive, _im_ pressive,” Goodnight drawled.

“We could make that twenty-four,” said Billy.

Goodnight grinned, understanding the warning. “How ‘bout I pour you a drink instead? That way, you get what you came here for.” He picked his way to the bar and fished out two glasses with a flourish. “Pick your poison.”

Billy regarded Goodnight with interest before pulling up a stool. He curled a bloody finger over the lip of one glass and drew it toward him. “I’d rather not. If you catch my meaning.”

Goodnight startled into delighted laughter. “Then would you be so kind as to pick mine? I’ve been trying to, ah, diversify my interests.”

“That's why you came here?” Billy said. “To _diversify_ your interests?”

“That, and there’s nothin’ like the stars in Texas.”

“Or the gold in Texas,” Billy said pointedly. It wasn’t a question. Goodnight could handle that.

“Now, I might be mistaken, but I think you’ve got Texas mixed up with California.”

The corners of Billy’s mouth twitched. “You’ve never been to California.”

“No,” said Goodnight, grinning wider. “Never.”

“I’ve been told the trees hide the stars in the mountains,” said Billy. “But you can see some if you lie on the train tracks. Not unlike Washington.”

Billy kept his gaze steady and level on Goodnight. His fist was split-open and swollen, oozing. He’d lost his hat, and he was disheveled, but he was otherwise unmarked.

What a tough goddamn cowboy, Goodnight thought, surprising himself. What a seamless goddamn man.

Goodnight could’ve kept looking at him for a while yet, and so he did.

“You and me, we’re twenty-three men each,” Goodnight said abruptly. He rubbed his sternum to ease the unspent energy in his chest. “A match for twenty-three men.” Except that Goodnight had killed his twenty-three at Antietam, and Billy hadn’t killed everyone here, just sent most of them off to sleep for a while. It seemed significant anyway. There was nothing stopping Billy from putting a bullet in the rest. “Which, by substitution, makes us equal and opposite to each other, my friend.”

Billy paused, considering. “I still think I could beat twenty-four.”

Goodnight threw his head back and guffawed.

“Let me try again,” Billy said, as Goodnight struggled to compose himself. “In Texas. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah, Billy,” Goodnight said. “Wasn’t anticipatin' a barful of unconscious cowboys or ruffians or prejudicial hooligans, but I'm where I want to be.”

Goodnight reached into his coat. He wondered if Billy was the type to shoot first, ask questions later. He wondered if they’d balance each other out, if one of them would go down first. He wondered if _he_ wanted to go down first.

He was the Angel of Death, and a part of him would’ve let Billy Rocks deliver him to some dark dream if Billy so pleased.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” said Goodnight. He produced and unfolded three warrants, not because Billy didn’t already _know_ , but because Goodnight figured that Billy would like to cash in on the other two. After all, Billy had done all of the work.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Billy asked.

Goodnight studied Billy for a moment, then tugged his personal flask out of his vest. He showed it to Billy before tipping its contents into both of their glasses, serving Billy first.

“My father used to say, ‘Sharing a good whiskey’s the most intimate thing two men can do with their clothes on.’” Goodnight winked and drank deeply. Billy sent him a quizzical look that Goodnight caught over the rim of his glass.

“A bonding exercise,” said Billy, dry as the Chihuahuan Desert. He hesitated, nodded to himself, and toasted Goodnight. He closed his eyes to savor the lingering burn, and a colossal pressure lifted from Goodnight’s shoulders.

The gravity of Billy’s attention dragged on Goodnight like an anchor around the ankles. Goodnight hadn’t felt so level in ages.

“Good?” asked Goodnight, a beat too slow.

“Good,” Billy agreed. He blinked and, much to Goodnight’s amazement, smiled. “We share the same taste.”

The itch had subsided.

**Author's Note:**

> written largely to all the stars in texas by ludo ("and all the stars in texas/ain't got nothin' on your eyes when you say let's hit 'em one more time").
> 
> I RECOGNIZE THAT TAKING ON 23 MEN AT ONCE IS UNLIKELY & A REALLY BAD IDEA. in interviews byung-hun said “five men,” but in the movie goodnight said “whole bar,” and while i like to think that goodnight is prone to embellishment, the part of me that lives for dramatic bigger-than-life fistfights wanted “whole bar” to be actually true, haha...
> 
> also headcanon that goodnight’s fairly well-educated, because “FAME IS A SARCOPHAGUS.”


End file.
